Red

Intro: Set in a dystopian future where the Master’s plan with the toclophane succeeded, Martha killed, the Doctor permanently imprisoned and humanity enslaved. What will Slayer Buffy Summers do in a world where she’s lost everything?

Warnings: Dark, if you don't like disparate and slightly insane Buffy stop reading now.

Pairing: Buffy/The Master

Disclaimer: Buffy belongs to Joss Whedon and Doctor Who to the BBC.

Red:


Nails like claws.

Shiny and lacquered with brilliant red.


Not the colour of blood, no where near, not that shade of metallic crimson.

She knows that colour all too well.


Shiny red like lollypops or the stripes on candy canes, the parts that always disappeared first.

She stares at the plastic-y nails, gleaming in the overhead lights.


Her empty gaze widens to take in the owner of those candy-apple-red surfboards.


Lucy.

Lonely Lucy.

Goosy Lucy.

Lost-her-mind-Lucy.


Not that Buffy can talk, she’s not been sane for a long while.

Some could argue she lost it back when she first became the Slayer.


But really?

That’s utter lies.


She stares silently at Saxon’s wife and wonders if he has a thing for blondes, as she takes in Lucy’s bright locks which had once been perfectly coiffed, she remembered from the old news-blogs.


Not so much now, now they are in loose curls that seem barely cared for, as the other woman sits there in her red-silk dress which matches the nails, even as she sips her tea delicately.


Perfect trophy wife, if you ignored her face.


Slack features, revealing utter disinterest in reality.


Blue eyes wide and vacant.


Not empty like her green, more…lost.


As if the woman is desperately attempting to find something she’d lost and failing, retreating further in on herself as she fails.


It’s not the blondes he goes for, Buffy realises in a spark of inspiration.


No.


She slips into the seat beside Lucy’s, taking in those eyes.


She’d be sad if she could, she considers silently as the other woman offers her tea with a dead-smile.


She accepts a chipped cup of the watery substance which she supposed once passed as tea, before it went cold, and drinks with a grimace.


Saxon doesn’t collect the blondes of this world.


He collects the broken…


Fin